


These thorns in my side, this heart on my sleeve

by phantomreviewer



Series: "Watch Your Back" [1]
Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, hurt (no comfort), set during e1s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's over almost as soon as it's begun, and underneath the fading sounds of his own screams Kent can hear the footsteps walk away. And it's not that he's too scared to look back -although he is- it's the fact that the pain is obliterating his senses and it's taking all of his efforts to stay against the wall and upright, letting his hands and face take the pressure from his legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These thorns in my side, this heart on my sleeve

It's over almost as soon as it's begun, and underneath the fading sounds of his own screams Kent can hear the footsteps walk away. And it's not that he's too scared to look back -although he is- it's the fact that the pain is obliterating his senses and it's taking all of his efforts to stay against the wall and upright, letting his hands and face take the pressure from his legs.  
   
He knows that he can't stand this forever, and even with the support of the wall his legs are beginning ro shake. Even without knowing much about his injuries, he knows that landing slap on the concrete of London's pavement could only do harm rather than good.  
   
Leaning back slowly means that he can control his movements, even if it does increase the pain and Kent instinctively clutches at his buttocks feeling the tear in his trousers and the blood in between his fingers. The pain is almost intolerable. And he pants, eyes clamped shut at the shock of it.  
   
Before this the worst injuries that he'd sustained had been when he'd taken a tumble from his bike, or when he'd been a boy and broken his ankle playing football at school. But this is something completely different and Kent drags himself out of his childhood memories to turn on the spot and hope that someone heard or saw anything. Or at least made motions towards the emergency services.  
   
It might be a twitch of a curtain hiding prying eyes, or it could just be a cat jostling the netting, but other than that the windows are quiet and none of Kent's fellow men have emerged onto the street.  
   
There's no way that he could even contemplate riding the Vespa anywhere and his fingers are bloodying the keypad of his mobile phone before he even takes it in that he's repeatedly thumbing in the number nine.  
   
It's funny, he thinks as it rings, he'd always wanted to be a policeman but he'd never had the moment of epiphany caused by an encounter with the service in his youth.  
   
Thinking about it further, it's not that funny.  
   
His voice is surprisingly steady as he says "ambulance".  
   
Saying that he's been 'striped' doesn't make the injury clear enough for the woman on the other end of the line. It's clear that she's more used to dealing with screaming and crying, he wonders momentarily if his quiet, gasping breaths are worrying her or putting her at her ease. Then he hisses in pain and remembers that of the two of them, it's he who should be being put at ease. There are tears pooling in his eyes, and he just wants whatever this is over with. Breathing sharply for a moment he reassess the attack as a 'non-life threatening knife wound to the lower back' and let's out a short breath with could have been a laugh of assent when she asks if he's in the police, 'you sound like you're used to this sort of thing'.  
   
After rattling the address of the interviewee and being told that the ambulance would be with him as soon as possible, Kent hangs up the call. The blood has begun to dry on his hands, and its looking at the blood on something innocuous as his mobile that finally brings him to tears.  
   
Once he's started however he can't stop, and almost without his notice he's hunched over the seat of his Vespa tears and snot running down his face being wiped away by bloody fingers.  
   
He can't imagine what the paramedics think of him when they arrive but they offer him a tissue for his face as they question him. They help him to ease his coat off, he hadn't even realised that the blood had soaked into the edge of it, following it swiftly with his jacket. Although he's mortified at the examination, he can't bring himself to be that embarrassed by it. He's focusing so much on trying not to cry again. His hands are still bloody and he doesn't want that on his face again. After painkillers and human contact that isn't trying to maim him Kent remembers himself enough to consider more than physical pain.  
   
He needs to be assisted up the few steps up the ambulance and as he's being pointed to lie face down on the gurney he turns to the paramedic supporting him by the waist.  
   
"What about my bike?"  
   
It's not the first thing that he should be thinking about, he was out on an investigation and he hadn't even informed the station.  
   
He cuts her off mid-sentence as she's explaining about the necessity to be swift with his journey to hospital.  
   
"And I need to tell my boss."  
   
She looks hesitant for a fraction of a second before seemingly making up her mind.  
   
"You're with the police?" -he nods, settling himself down on the gurney- "Very well, we'll need the name of your commanding officer and a contact number."  
   
He reels the number and Chandler's name off without thinking about it. After everything's that's happened they're at least constants.  
   
It's been less than twenty minutes since the attack and Kent still can't place quite how it happened.  
   
"Excuse me, may I speak to a DI Joe Chandler? It's in regards to one of his men, Emerson Kent?"  
   
One moment he was leaving to return to the station and the next...  
   
"Yes, thank you. Detective Inspector? My name is Georgia Hamilton and I'm a paramedic. There's been an incident with a member of your team, Emerson Kent."  
   
For all he wants to believe that the attack was completely random, -who'd knowingly attack a detective?- he knows that it wasn't. From the way they spoke, they wanted him. And that, that upsets Kent in a way that the attack itself couldn't.  
   
That he'd brought this upon himself somehow.  
   
That he'd hindered the case because of this...  
   
"He's been involved with an altercation. Mr Kent has suffered from a number of non-fatal knife slashing to the lower back and buttocks. Yes, he's currently on route to hospital."  
   
Even with painkillers it feels as though his entire back has been wrenched open to the elements. From thighs to ribs he feels as though he's been flayed. Even though he knows the wound is comparatively small it feels like he's been ripped apart.  
   
"The Royal London Hospital. Yes. I will. Thank you."  
   
And he's been able to walk, in agonised small steps, to his Vespa, up the short steps to his temporary sanctuary. But he doesn't know how bad his injuries are, the pain and the situation have been enough to keep his mind from the consequences, but now he's got the opportunity to consider it. He just doesn't know.  
   
"Emerson? Your boss said that he'd come to the hospital as quickly as possible with your sergeant? And that a fellow called Mansell would collect your-"  
   
She's distracted by his threading of his bloody fingers together frantically on the bed. Although she's right when asking if the pain is getting worse -even lying down the pain is seemingly multiplying with every minuscule movement of the ambulance- that's not why he's suddenly ashen faced.  
   
Because he's hadn't turned around. He couldn't bring himself to look at those who attacked him. Something that would end up as being key evidence in their case. And he'd been unable to bring anything out of the encounter other than blood and tears. The pitiable siren echoes above him, as Kent swallows and attempts to compose himself.  
   
They aren't far from the hospital and his hands are stained with blood after all.  


  


**Author's Note:**

> (If you think you've seen this before, then you'd be right. I'm making very slow progress in archiving all my fics on LJ over onto AO3. I might be here a while.)


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